


Birgitte, In the Kitchen, with Ice Cream

by fictorium



Category: Borgen (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:34:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictorium/pseuds/fictorium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting at Marienborg, set in the months between s1 and s2. Birgitte and Katrine have their first conversation since Katrine resigned.</p><p>(Disclaimer: My first Borgen fic, and with my limited knowledge of Danish I've tried to mirror that in the speech, while writing in English)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birgitte, In the Kitchen, with Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ozmissage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozmissage/gifts).



“Ms Fønsmark?” The steward is as polite as ever, but there’s an edge to his tone now.

 

“One moment,” she says, with her friendliest smile. “I just wanted to get the name of this specially imported--”

 

“It’s okay,” Birgitte says, sweeping into the huge, industrial kitchen as though she does it every day. “Katrine is just getting details of my personal excesses to write about for _Ekspres_.” 

 

“Madam _Statsminister_ ,” Katrine says automatically. Her spine straightens in the presence of Birgitte, an unconscious gesture of respect even as she prepares to overstep her professional boundaries. “The catering staff mentioned that there is caviar and that it cost a great deal of taxpayers’ money.”

 

“Well, we do have caviar as one small part of tonight’s spread,” Birgitte says, crossing to one of the giant metal freezers and yanking a carton of ice cream out onto the counter. In her deep purple gown it looks strange, the domesticity of it entirely wrong somehow. “But you can call off the dogs; it was a gift.”

 

“You like it here at Marienborg?” Katrine asks, ignoring the quiet cough from the steward. She smooths out her simple black dress self-consciously, knowing she would have picked out one of her few truly gorgeous dresses if she weren’t still so angry at everything.

 

“It’s a beautiful building,” Birgitte says, words learned by rote, the smile just as practiced. She contemplates for a moment, before surrendering with a sigh, pulling the lid from the carton with some force. Those shrewd blue eyes fix on Katrine for a moment, before Birgitte turns to the shelves and pulls down two glass bowls.

 

“Tell me,” Birgitte says, scooping the chocolate ice cream out with the practiced, even hand of a mother who doesn’t want a fight over whose portion is bigger; Katrine almost forgets she hasn’t been asked if she wants any. “Are you as bored shitless as I am tonight?”

 

Katrine can’t help it, she laughs. Despite the editing fiasco and her simmering anger with Torben, and the fact that even if Kasper did it all, he did it at this woman’s instruction, Katrine still laughs.

 

“It’s not the most fascinating night of my life,” she admits. 

 

“I thought you’d be hanging around Kasper,” Birgitte says, pushing the bowl towards Katrine with an accusatory look. “Spoons,” she mutters, rooting through a drawer while Katrine composes herself and searches for a diplomatic answer.

 

“We don’t talk much these days,” is about the best she can do. Birgitte tenses for a moment, putting the pieces together in her quiet way, before returning with the spoons and a far weaker smile. Her elegant hairstyle is starting to fall down just a little, a strand or two escaping, and Katrine feels the strange, girlish impulse to cross the space and pin those strands back in place. 

 

“Some compromises are worse than others,” Birgitte acknowledges.

 

“Like Bent Sejrø?” Katrine can’t resist asking, and she actually holds her breath once the question tumbles from her lips. This is the impulsive streak Torben hates in her, the one Hanne has warned her against time and again. Sometimes pushing is what gets you the story, but tonight she’s not even really on assignment; she’s just here to bother Kasper because he couldn’t disinvite her.

 

“His resignation was a loss,” Birgitte says, and this time the political smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “No doubt Torben Friis would say the same of you, if I asked him.”

 

“I’m not so sure,” Katrine says with a shrug. She scoops up a mouthful of ice cream and lets it melt against her tongue. “In fact, if you asked him he’d probably tell you I’m responsible for at least one of his ulcers,” she adds after a moment.

 

“These indulgences,” Birgitte sighs after a spoonful of her own dessert. “This means another twenty minutes on the cross-trainer. There are so few things in life I hate as much as that machine.”

 

“I like classes better,” Katrine admits, not meaning to get personal but something in Birgitte Nyborg always pushes her towards it. “Spinning, mostly. Good for stress.”

 

“I don’t think I could just show up to Fitness DK, somehow,” Birgitte teases. “Perhaps I can have them install the bikes in Parliament. We can vote in between cycles.”

 

“You did challenge Danes to be healthier,” Katrine shoots back, but she’s surprised to find she’s enjoying herself. “I should go, let you have dessert in peace.”

 

“I don’t mind the company,” Birgitte says, a little too quickly. The shadows under her eyes are suddenly so much more noticeable, the tremble in her spoon-holding hand says more about the toll of separation and divorce than she’s said publicly so far. “So long as you remember we’re off the record.”

 

“You should have said,” Katrine teases, keeping her poker face intact. “I already wrote three paragraphs of exposé on what your preference in ice cream flavours means for the budget.”

 

“Shame,” Birgitte says with a smile. “And my real favourite is mint, but no matter how many times I mention it, it doesn’t show up in the freezer.”

 

“If you want something done...”

 

“I should do it myself, yes. You sound a lot like your new boss,” Birgitte accuses, and the flicker of very real disgust for Laugesen is one that Katrine shares, but she has to pay rent somehow.

 

“You’re planning a trip to Afghanistan?” Katrine asks a moment later, changing tack.

 

“We’re trying,” Birgitte admits. “The security is very difficult, as you can imagine.”

 

“I’m going out next week,” Katrine supplies, not sure why the Prime Minister is the first person she’s telling; the arrangements have been made for at least two weeks now. “I’m going to be embedded with the troops.”

 

“I didn’t know journalists still did that,” Birgitte says, and it’s not unkind. “I always think of the Americans, CNN... maybe the BBC sometimes. I feel like wars are always reported in English, somehow.”

 

“That’s certainly how a lot of them are started,” Katrine agrees. “And Danish journalists have been risking their lives since we got into this.”

 

“I know they have,” Birgitte says, placating with a sweep of her hand. This is why entire rooms hang on her every word, and Katrine hates herself for getting caught up in it. “I hope you’ll be safe out there.”

 

“I’ll be as safe as other people’s sons and daughters are,” Katrine says, pushing her bowl back towards the middle of the counter. “The ones we keep sending into harm’s way.”

 

“I wasn’t _Statsminister_ when we went to war, Katrine,” Birgitte replies, and she sounds so world-weary that Katrine almost feels guilty. But she’s not Laura or Magnus, not some kid to be dismissed with a simple explanation.

 

“Perhaps when you see my reports, you’ll think again about bringing the troops home,” Katrine suggests. “Someone should.”

 

“Thank you,” Birgitte says, but the ice cream is gone and the professional mask slips right back into place. “I’ll be sure to bear that in mind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a party waiting for me upstairs.”

 

“I’ll...” Katrine realises she’s blown it, whatever unguarded moment that was. “I’ll see you up there.”

 

Birgitte leaves in a rustle of expensive fabric and leaving just the faintest trace of her perfume behind. Katrine avoids the steward’s accusatory glance, opting to collect the bowls and place them in the large metal sink. There’ll be staff bustling in here again before too long, so Katrine takes her chance to leave.

 

She doesn’t rejoin the party, not when she sees Kasper on the stairs, flirting with some blonde in that easy way he has. Instead, Katrine turns towards the front doors, nodding at the young man who scurries off to fetch her car. 

 

Her mouth still tastes like chocolate, and she realises it’s time to get out of Copenhagen for sure. She packs that night, and moves her flight forward by five days. 

 

She doesn’t call Kasper. And she tells herself it doesn’t hurt when he doesn’t call her.


End file.
